You say, O Sage, when weather-checked,
       &nbsp “I have been favoured so
With cloudless skies, I must expect
       &nbsp This dash of rain or snow.”

“Since health has been my lot,” you say,
       &nbsp “So many months of late,
I must not chafe that one short day
       &nbsp Of sickness mars my state.”

You say, “Such bliss has been my share
       &nbsp From Love’s unbroken smile,
It is but reason I should bear
       &nbsp A cross therein awhile.”

And thus you do not count upon
       &nbsp Continuance of joy;
But, when at ease, expect anon
       &nbsp A burden of annoy.

But, Sage - this Earth - why not a place
       &nbsp Where no reprisals reign,
Where never a spell of pleasantness
       &nbsp Makes reasonable a pain?